


Rhythm and Skin

by Redisaid



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F, Female Solo, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redisaid/pseuds/Redisaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doing anything alone is still too hard...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm and Skin

The strings are rough. The thing about thicker strings is that you can both feel and see the grooves in them. They’re like great steel worms, tightly segmented—bellowing out a deep melody that she sometimes thinks whales might appreciate more than her usual audience. Still, she loves it. She loves the way it rattles her rib cage. It feels like a heartbeat, almost—a distant memory she questions sometimes—wonders if its been wholly replaced by imagination after all this time.

They’re like sunlight to her now. They hurt a little, but in a familiar way. Their notes settle into her belly, low and warm and liquid. Soup and sunlight, she decides. That’s how it is when she plays. It’s sounding good. She wants to sing, but can’t think of any lyrics. Her mind is stuck on the contrast between the rough strings and the smooth sounds they produce.

And then she has to go and remember something else that was smooth. A great expanse of smoothness, soft and warm too. And it smelled good—really good. Faint and sweet and powdery, maybe with a little hint of some impossible to distinguish fruit in there. Heavy and warm all around her, that smooth skin felt good next to hers.

“La da da da.”

Syllables start spilling out of her. There’s no meaning to them, except there is. Marceline remembers them, sounds them out with an instinctual pattern of notes. She’s good at this, remembering things that no one else does. She sincerely doubts that Bubblegum will remember the little diddies she used to sing her while the princess was warm and heavy against her chest, hovering near sleep. Marceline remembers all of them.

“I’m gonna bury you in the ground. La da da da, I’m gonna bury you in my sound. ”

It sounds too mean, almost. She is pretty upset over how much she can’t get that pink skin out of her head. Time won’t change that either. She wishes anything but this would inspire her, yet this is always what does.

“I’m gonna drink the red from your pretty pink face.”

She’s done that. She smiles to herself as her fingers continue to pluck and strum away. It didn't taste like red. Red tastes bright and acidic sometimes, other times almost too rich and earthy. Her princess tasted like fresh cotton candy—like spring mornings and the mystery fruit she smelled on her skin. Her smile fades. The strings are too rough and slip from her fingers. The sound goes bad. Chords clash and rhythms lose themselves. She’s done it again. If it wasn't one of kind, she’d consider throwing her bass down. Instead, she summons all available restraint and settles for resting it in a corner of her bedroom.

_She hovered over her neck. Even that was flushed. Every part of Bubblegum screamed of life in that moment. Her breath hitched. Smooth skin twitched as veins beneath it pumped hard and fast. Marceline was in for quite a treat._

_“Wait, not there,” the princess pleaded even as she squirmed beneath her._

_“Then where else? Here?” she trailed her finger down slowly from Bubblegum’s throbbing jugular to her collar bone. “Or here?” She rested it briefly on the particularly soft spot of skin between her breasts. “Or maybe here?” Her finger slid to the side as it went down and found the top of a hip bone._

_“The last one. Definitely the last one,” Bubblegum replied, breath and voice both shaking, anticipating._

“Damn it Bonnie,” she says to the corner. Sometimes there are days when she doesn't think about her at all. She remembers other things from her massive catalog—ghost gangs and how much of a jerk her dad is. She keeps herself busy pranking Finn and Jake or trying to play any other sort of song. There are plenty of days when does think about her, though, and once she starts, it is so hard to stop.

Then all she wants to do is explore every inch of that pink skin over and over again. She wants to feel it give way to her touch in the soft spots, then push back and resist the pressure in the places where it is taunt and firm. She wants to watch it flush and heat up, inviting her in like a roaring fire on cold night.

She sighs. Of course there are ways to get rid of these thoughts, albeit temporarily—ways she sometimes feels pathetic for resorting to. She could easily go and find someone else to help her take her mind off of Bonnie, but she doesn't want anyone else. She wants her. She wants her skin and her scent and her taste.

She certainly doesn't feel like playing anymore. She floats up and over her bed and contemplates a nap. She can’t. She lets go, plunging face down onto the sheets. She doesn't ever really use them. Even so, she buries her face into a pillow.

_She grinned up at her from those sheets. It was new expression, certainly one that she’d never seen in this position. Marceline was used to observing blushes, embarrassment and scrunched noses. These would then soon relax and forget themselves, but she loved them all the same. This grin though—it was uncharacteristically devious._

_Bubblegum held tight to her shoulder and pushed, rolling her to the other side of bed. Before Marceline could even ask what she was doing, the pink girl was straddling her waist._

_Bubblegum let out a low chuckle at her surprise, then sighed as moved herself on top of one of Marceline’s thighs. “I thought we’d give this a try,” she finally said. Her eyes fluttered, threatening to close as she moved slowly. “And I’m already thinking that was a most excellent idea.”_

“Damn it Bonnie,” she groans again into the pillow. She swears it smells faintly like sweet, fruity gum.

It isn't too long before she wriggles out of her jeans.


End file.
